Wake Up
by Spartapuss
Summary: Ezio turns to the comforts large amounts of wine can offer, and finds himself with a different perspective on his life. Suicide. Oneshot. Angsty .


What does a man think of when he first wakes? His breakfast perhaps? The quality of his sheets? If he is a good man, then his mind will call up the image of his family or his wife. In those few moments of semi-lucidity, the three things he feels an intimate connection with are love, wealth and happiness.

Consider then, if you will, the lonely assassin. Cloaked in secrecy, he shuns the world, striking fear into the hearts of all he meets. Such a man wakes, of course. He is a mere mortal. But, as he opens his wary, weary eyes, what does he think of?

He has no family. He has few friends, if any at all. He is as rich or as poor as he needs to be from mission to mission. And happiness?

Well, nobody other than the assassin himself truly knows the answer to that. Deep, deep down, buried by layers of shifting shadow, sheets of ice, and hard lumps of iron, what is there left of him but a blackened, weeping shell of a heart, listlessly pumping in a sick parody of life?

I will not say that I am sorry, for I am not. From one logical man to another, this is the reasoning behind the action.

Ezio laid down his quill and drank deeply from his third wine glass. The liquid warmed him as he took up the letter in his calloused hand and began to fold it methodically, lovingly, before fitting it inside a small yellow envelope. Taking a blood-red, stuttering candle, he poured a little wax over the parchment, and pressed heavily upon the congealing mass with his signet ring. An eagle, wings outstretched towards a better tomorrow, was revealed as he removed the ring, but instead of soaring, it was shoved roughly into a pouch on Ezio's hip.

He got up to leave, but remembered the bottle on the table, and snatched it up as he passed. Outside in the street, the night was balmy and quiet, but punctuated by occasional explosions of colour and roars of approval from a distant crowd. Ezio drank from the bottle as he headed purposefully away from the festivities. As he was walking across a lonely bridge, a loud growl from the shadow of the building opposite shattered his peace.

"You look like you've had quite enough of that, amico mio. Why not pass it over, and we can spend a nice friendly evening together si? Watch the fireworks?" the man snickered, emerging into the dim moonlight. Accompanying him was a handful of dirty sailor-types, cackling and passing a bottle of something among themselves.

Ezio's eyes, red-rimmed, narrowed, and he slowly lowered the bottle down onto the flagstones.

"Ah, now that's more like it!" another man slurred happily, stooping for it. Before the sailor even had a chance to touch the glass, Ezio had two hands around his neck, and the next thing he knew, he had thrown him bodily into the water. He stared blankly at the man below him splashing and screaming for help. He picked up his wine, and grimacing a little, swiftly downed the contents. Meanwhile, the two sailors who weren't trying to rescue their comrade snarled and charged at him, knives appearing in their brawny hands.

With a swish of steel and grating sparks, Ezio drew his sword and slaughtered them even as their faces began to register surprise. The last hulk, larger than the rest, exclaimed in sudden terror, "You must be that a-assassin I keep h-hearing about." He backed away, eyeing Ezio's dripping sword and crimson splattered clothes. "I, uh, thought you only killed i-important people?"

Ezio scowled and scrubbed angrily at the drying gore on his face. "I am no longer an assassin. Not anymore. How can I be, when there is nothing left? Nothing! Emptiness and pain and despair, that's all that exists, so why bother?" His voice, which had been soft at first, grew to a rough, desperate shriek, and then cracked painfully as he shouted the last few words.

The sailor, to his credit, was moved by this outburst, despite the recent demise of the other sailors. He hesitantly stretched out a hand towards Ezio, knowing the danger, but drawn to comfort the obvious suffering of his fellow man.

"Do you uh, want to talk about it?" he said awkwardly, aware of the stony expression on Ezio's face.

"No."

The massive sailor patted him on his shoulder. "Personally, I think you d-did a good job. I mean, those men were all corrupt, right? And you seem alright.. Physically, I mean…"

Ezio knocked the sailor's hand away from his shoulder, and ripped the sleeve of his shirt apart. Throwing the scrap of material away, he brandished his bared arm, displaying a web of silvery scars criss-crossing his skin.

"Look!" He cried. He traced up his arm, and across his body. "They just keep going and going. Everywhere! See? One day I'll wake up and it won't be me anymore." He touched his head. "They are in here too. Every punch, every kick, every sword thrust, I feel it in here. Oh, Dio!" Ezio doubled over, hugging himself. "I'm a mess…"

He abruptly straightened, his eyes staring wildly. "You know Leonardo Da Vinci? Take this to him, per favore." he said, holding out the crumpled letter.

"Ah, si, right away."

Ezio frowned, swaying a little. "Bueno. Arrivaderci…" He clambered up a ladder with remarkable agility for one so inebriated, conversely leaving the sailor very sober indeed.

Ezio perched precariously at the very top of the Campanile di San Marco, peering down at the ground. He had moved the hay cart, to the amusement of several passersby, and sent the letter to Leonardo. The numbing heat of the alcohol prevented him from feeling the the icy winter wind that threatened to blow him off the roof. Unsteadily, he stood up, using his arms for balance; one bare and scarred and the other covered by the hidden blade. There was a reason why assassins didn't drink, he thought with a cynical grin. His toes curled around the edge, and Ezio began to remove his clothes. First the rows and rows of knives, and then the belts of weaponry, tossed into the wind. Next the heavy, battered, bloodstained armour, hurled angrily at the square so far below. The clang echoed dully, and the ant-sized people scattered. He laughed humourlessly. Finally his clothes, his work clothes, his casual clothes, his funeral clothes; his ubiquitous white robe. Off it came too, fluttering away like a huge white moth, ghostly in the dark. Ezio stood on the top of the tower, completely naked, baring all to the unforgiving heavens; his body, his scars, his upturned face.

"Am I good enough now for you now? Did I do right?" He screamed to the world, beating his chest violently. The movement, combined with his fear, anger, pain, confusion and sheer unsteadiness was enough to join forces with the wind, and knock him off the tower.

Ezio wept all the way to the bottom.

**A/N**

This was a bit of a rubbish attempt at Ezio's possible mental health, but all reviews still welcome xD


End file.
